Stranded in the Master's Hall
by Feagalad
Summary: "Bilbo, please come back to Buckland. I believe that Frodo would benefit from your company; we are having some problems with him. My husband and myself hope that maybe your presence might help..." Bilbo frowned and laid down the letter. Frodo needed him and he would go at once. (Sequel to 'Ribbons in the Brandywine')
1. Correspondence

**Disclaimer:** *checks under bed* Nope...still don't own Middle-Earth.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins closed the door behind Lobelia and gave a satisfied, if exhausted, smile. He had managed to entertain her at lunch without losing his temper. She always made him feel like hurling his teacup at her head. He knew that she only came to visit in order to spy out his health; she seemed quite disappointed that he didn't seem to be getting any older.

A knock at the door made him jump. Bilbo stifled a groan: probably it was Lobelia come back to say something particularly nasty. Another knock sounded. Well, there was nothing for it – Bilbo squared his shoulders and opened the door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Baggins," said the postal runner. "I've a couple of letters for you."

"Thank you." Bilbo took his letters and closed the door.

Sitting in his study, Bilbo began to sort through the mail. "An invitation from the Whitfoots." Bilbo muttered. "And two letters from…Buckland!" Bilbo picked up the first letter and opened it.

_Dear Bilbo,_

_Howre you doing? It's been a long time since you came to visit. I really miss you. Is the bisnuss you had to take care of fineshed? I have to go now. Mr. Brockhouse is coming this way._

_Love,_

_Frodo Baggins_

Bilbo set down Frodo's letter with a wistful smile, and a mental note to work on Frodo's spelling and grammar. It had been too long since he had seen the young hobbit.. Roughly a month after Drogo and Primula's untimely death, he had been called back to Hobbiton on urgent business. Bilbo had been reluctant to leave Frodo, who was still rather traumatized after his parent's deaths, but there had been no choice. Bilbo sighed and opened the other letter.

_Brandy Hall August 4, 1381_

_Mr Baggins,_

_I hope that the business you were called away for went well as I have a request to make._

_Bilbo, please come back to Buckland. I believe that Frodo would benefit from your company; we are having some problems with him. My husband and myself hope that maybe your presence might help, since as the preparations for Saradoc's wedding become ever more intense, we find ourselves with little time to really sit down with Frodo._

_Sincerely,_

_Menegilda Brandybuck_

Bilbo frowned and laid down the letter. Frodo needed him and he would go at once.


	2. Scheduling

**6 weeks previous…**

"So, Frodo my lad, you are twelve years old – are you not?" Gorbadoc Brandybuck surveyed his grandson from where he sat propped up in bed.

Frodo stood with his hands clasped behind his back and answered politely. "Yes, sir."

"Then you are old enough to begin your schooling." Gorbadoc harrumphed out a cough, jowls wagging (Frodo wondered privately if his grandfather was about to take off like some sort of bloated bird) "Starting this Monday, my lad, you will start getting an education befitting of a Brandy Hall ward. We here in Buckland don't think like the rest of the Shire. We don't let our children grow up in ignorance, we believe that every Brandy Hall lad and gentlelass should grow up knowing how to read and write."

"Yes, sir."

"It is not right that anyone should be cheated when it comes to any legal matter, simply because they cannot read the contract." Gorbadoc went on – ponderously explaining in full detail this noble ideal…and Frodo's thoughts became less and less noble the longer the lecture went on. It was a relief when Saradoc, who had been waiting outside, opened the door and stepped through – putting a firm hand on Frodo's shoulder.

"Sorry to interrupt, Grandda." He said to Gorbadoc, cutting the older hobbit off mid-sentence. "But I still have to show Frodo the gardens and let him know what his chores will be before it's teatime."

Gorbadoc closed his mouth with a snap and nodded, seeming rather put-out at having his speech interrupted. "Very well then, son. Off you go."

* * *

"Since you will be joining the family here you will be assigned daily duties to do." Sara said as he led Frodo towards the kitchen gardens. "All of the children, teens, and tweens have responsibilities that they are to fulfill. This helps keep the Hall running smoothly, and prepares the young folk for adult life." Leading the way to the herb bed, Sara said. "This will be your duty – along with weekly kitchen shifts. It will be your job to help with the gardening, pulling weeds and hauling water and the like. You will start this coming Monday."

Frodo nodded. He had done a bit of gardening with his mother back home but – kitchen duty? He wasn't sure what to make of this one. What was he to do – scrape out the cake pan and lick the cream whisk?

Saradoc seemed to notice his cousin's inquisitive look. "You'll be put on circulation – one day every week you and several other's will be put on duty to get the dining hall cleaned up and the dishes taken into the kitchen, things like that. Okay, Frodo?"

"Sure."

* * *

And sure enough – with a few minor hiccups Frodo settled into this routine: every morning he would head out to the kitchen gardens to pull weeds and water; and every Wednesday he would help to wipe down the tables in the dining hall. Life went on.


	3. Something Rotten in Buckland

**Author's Note:** So this little thing called 'real life' has struck again. Just handing that little thought out as a warning that updates on all my stories will be slow. I will never abandon one, though, so don't worry about that.

* * *

Saradoc stood and tugged on his cravat anxiously. "D'you really think we should go through with it, Mac?" he asked his brother.

Mac snorted, not even looking up from where he was trying to detangle a knot in his foot hair. "I never expected you to get cold feet, Sara. You've been waiting nearly a year for this – what's eating at you?"

"Nothing, it's just…" Sara claimed the brush from Merimac and set about tackling his own appendages. "It's so soon after Aunt Prim's death. Almost feels disrespectful to have so happy a celebration when there are still some in mourning."

He thought of his father in particular as he brushed away at the newly washed hair. Though some time had passed since the tragedy of the Brandywine, Rorimac had yet to fully recover. He would bury his pain most days, throwing himself into his work and duties, but sometimes in the late evenings Saradoc would catch him staring off into space and just thinking. The morose look wouldn't last long (with Gorbadoc failing more and more each day the care of the Hall fell to Rory) but it was definitely there if you knew what to look for.

Mac clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I don't think Aunt Prim would have wanted us to mope around forever. We've just got to move on and I think your marriage to Esmerelda has already been delayed long enough, don't you?"

A smile stole over Sara's face as he thought of his gorgeous, redheaded bride. "Perhaps you're right."

* * *

The afternoon sun streamed through the window and golden dust specks danced in the warm rays. Frodo basked it in, curled up on a windowseat in one of the many parlours. In his hands he held a tarnished silver watch, his fingers gently tracing the ferns etched into the casing. The watch had been a gift from his mother to his father and had been recovered from Drogo's body after he was pulled from the river. Frodo clung to it as the last thing he had of his parents'. In an (doubtlessly well-meaning) attempt to help him move on, Rorimac had taken all of Primula and Drogo's effects and put them away in one of the many mathom rooms 'until you come of age'. The clothing had been passed out among some of the less affluent members of the Hall as a charity gesture and Frodo was moved to a room with nothing but a few suits of clothing and the belongings he had brought in his small bag.

Frodo sniffed, blinking away burning tears angrily as he stroked the watch. It just wasn't fair! Everyone was very kind and cut him plenty of slack, but no one paid much mind to him anymore. It's not that he wanted to be the centre of attention, but it would have been nice to receive a hug once in a while or to have someone to coo over his latest discovery – but he had no one and it was lonely.

So consumed was he in contemplating these dark observations that he never noticed his company until the other hobbit barked out a laugh. "Cor! Where are the mates when you need 'em? Widdle Fwodo's hiding like a scaredy cat!" It was Terridon Brockhouse, a nasty and, in Frodo's personal opinion, particularly thick young teen who was a fellow Ward of the Hall. "Whatcha doin' here all alone? I thought you'd be making yourself all pretty for the wedding – I know how lasses like to primp and all."

"Shut up, Terry." Frodo swiped a hand over his cheeks and sniffed, hoping that Terry wouldn't notice the tears.

Terry, not being the most observant of lads, mercifully did not. He did, however, catch sight of the sunlight gleaming off of the watch. "Now, what have you got there?" He took a step closer.

Frodo leaped off of the window seat and put a low table between himself and Terry. Lately the older hobbit had taken to confiscating 'too grown-up' items off of the younger hobbits and Frodo had a bad feeling about the gleam in his eyes. "Don't you even think of taking it." He said in a voice braver than what he felt inside.

"Never crossed my mind – but thanks for the suggestion." Terry lunged forward, reaching for the watch, and promptly fell as Frodo stumbled backwards and ran from the room. "Oh no you don't!" Terry hauled himself to his feet and took off after the younger hobbit.

Frodo raced through the corridors, heart pounding in his throat as he heard the footfalls of Terry not far behind. Where were all of the people when you needed them? On normal days one could hardly get away from the oppressing crowds, but now the halls were empty – making it a perfect hunting ground for Terry the bully.

At last Frodo came to a dead end (cursing his bad luck – he should have turned right not left) and turned around to face the approaching doom. Bilbo always said that it is better to look something in the eye rather than let it creep up behind you – so Frodo faced the danger and lifted his chin defiantly.

"So, orphan, hand it over." Terry snarled, clenching his fists (though the effect was slightly ruined by his red face and gasping lungs).

Frodo felt the wall pressing against his back and fought the urge to cower away. Terridon Brockhouse was a good two years older (and several stones heavier) but his father had always taught him that showing fear to a bully only gives them power and that was the last thing he wanted to give to Terry. "I'm not giving you anything!"

His courage was rewarded with a rough shove to the shoulders, which took him by surprise (Terry had never really gone for physical before, preferring to sneer and snipe from a safe distance and surrounded by mates). Well, Terry was certainly _sneering_: "I've seen that pretty little watch you've been carrying around and I want a closer look at it – so give it to me."

"No." Frodo clamped his hands around the pocket watch He wasn't giving this up and Terry couldn't make him.

"What did you tell me?" Terry said, leaning in so that Frodo could smell the salted pork on his breath. "Did you just tell me no?"

Frodo gulped, but nodded – determined to not break eye contact. "I said no."

"And I say yes!" Terry lunged forward, using his superior weight and height to pin the younger hobbit against the wall, fighting to get a good grip on Frodo's tightly clenched hands. "Give it here or I'll have to take it off you."

"NO!" Frodo wriggled desperately as Terry's fingernails pried his grip away from the watch. He kicked out desperately, causing Terry to jerk away with a startled cry.

"Ooo, you'll pay for that!" Terry snarled, making another grab for the watch (this time successfully getting a firm hold of Frodo's wrists). Slowly, painfully he peeled the young hobbit's fingers apart and removed the coveted treasure despite Frodo's protests. "Whoops, looks like it's in my hands now."

Frodo leaped at him, crumpling against the wall as he was shoved back. "Give it here – it's mine!"

"Was yours." Terry examined the watch thoughtfully. "I might make a few farthings off of this next market day. Thanks, Baggins." He swaggered away, putting the watch in his pocket with a self-satisfied smirk. Frodo leaned against the wall, panting and furious.

"I'll show you, Terry!" He yelled at the retreating figure. "I'll tell Saradoc on you!" Physical assault would be pointless since Terry was so much bigger, but Sara would come to his aid, he just knew it. And Sara was much bigger than Terry!


	4. Vengeance Delayed

"Sara, I need to tell you something."

"Frodo Baggins! Why aren't you dressed?" Menegilda demanded, swooping down on the young hobbit in a disapproving whirlwind of lavender silk. Frodo squirmed away as she ran her fingers through his hair critically and scolded. "Your cousin is to be wed in less than an hour. Didn't you see the clothes I laid out for you?"

In truth, Frodo _hadn't _seen the hand-me-down weskit and coat because he had paid no attention to the too-big attire; so eager was he to escape the hubbub of the wedding preparations. When a young lass named Poppy had brought him a message from his aunt and brandished a (rather alarming) set of red velvet clothes at him, Frodo was quick to sequester himself away in the relative quite and serenity of the library. Of course, that hadn't exactly paid off… "I need to talk to Sara – "

"Did you see them?" Menegilda repeated, examining the brown trousers with a frown.

"Yes." Frodo admitted, figuring that a little white lie for the sake of placating his aunt couldn't be wrong. Besides, he had more important things to worry about now. "Sara…" Saradoc sighed impatiently as Frodo went on and on. He had to get out front and soon if he didn't want to be late to his own wedding. But as he took Merimac (his best man) and headed out of the parlour where his immediate family had congregated, Frodo broke loose from Menegilda and scampered over to Saradoc to tug insistently at his sleeve with a grubby hand. "Saradoc – "

"Bugger off, Frodo." Merimac said, not unkindly. "Go get yourself dressed."

"But – "

Saradoc heaved a deep sigh: at this rate he'd be getting married next Yuletide! "I don't have time for this right now, Frodo." He pried the child's fingers away. "If you're not in life-threatening danger, then it really needs to wait." He figured that maybe Frodo wanted someone to spin tops with him while he waited for the arrival of Esmerelda Took, and there was no way Sara was going to take time out of _his _wedding day (potentially spoiling his suit) to play childish games to keep a child entertained.

Frodo made one last effort. "But I need – "

"No means no!" Sara had had enough and the statement came out a bit harsher than he intended. He felt a stab of remorse when Frodo stumbled back, eyes widening almost comically before the young hobbit turned and rushed away, but found that he didn't have it in him to apologise for the outburst. Between his mother's fussing and Merimac's nagging – Frodo's whinging was the last straw to Saradoc's fraying nerves.

* * *

Frodo rushed back to his room and kicked the leg of his bed stand angrily. The pain in his big toe did little to improve his disposition and he was suddenly very thankful that his two roommates had already left. Stupid Terry! It seemed that even when the bully wasn't there he was causing problems. Frodo bit his lip as he thought of his father's poor watch, doubtlessly being squeezed to death in the sweaty grip of Terridon Smallfoot. He had to get it back – he just had to! There was no way that he was letting the slimy, repulsive prat get away with what had been done. One way or the other, Frodo would pay Terry back.

He stood for a moment, lost in a pleasant fantasy of Terry begging and pleading for mercy on bended knee as justice was meted out. The bully had been a constant thorn in his side ever since the 'novelty' of his parents' deaths had worn off and people had stopped smothering him. While Frodo was glad for the greater freedom that not having one's footsteps dogged every hour of the day allowed, he didn't appreciate the fact that he was now in the sights of some of the less-than-civil hobbits closer to his age. But he'd show them. He'd show them all.

Tugging on the uncomfortable red velvet suit and grimacing in discomfort at the stiffly starched collar, Frodo resolved to go and wait out the wedding and then corner his cousin for help with Terry.


End file.
